


Wounded

by savorycheeks



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood, M/M, Masochism, Sadism, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 19:29:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3422888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savorycheeks/pseuds/savorycheeks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A once fine piece of dishware, now fractured in a grotesque mosaic of cracks and glue, hurls itself to the floor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Now

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after the events of season 2. Less of a story and more of a snippet.

Now. 

The meticulously groomed trees lining the perimeter of Hannibal's European home provide Will the seclusion he needs. The night is warm, hot drops of water hitting him and accumulating like guilt, weighing him down with each step. It is raining, Will is sure, because Hannibal demands that kind of poetry in his life.

A silhouette glides --jacket off, vest remaining, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow-- in and out of Will's view through the window. 

A grimace of deranged amusement twists Will's face at the thought of arriving unannounced, at dinner time, no less. The good doctor, for his part, diligently continues his machinations. Will sees with perfect clarity, despite the blinds that limit his view, Hannibal setting a table for one, placing dishware, each utensil in its place. In his mind, Hannibal glances at his watch, determining the precise moment to remove tonight's meal from its particular heat source. 

An interruption to this ritual would be unforgivably rude. 

The grimace widens, the smooth curve of the doorbell conflating with the sensation of the curved blade tearing through the scar in his abdomen. 

With some satisfaction, Will is able to see, in silhouette, the jerk of Hannibal's head at the sound. It is perhaps another twenty seconds before the door is opened, enough time for rivulets of blood to fall at the doorstep, mingling, spreading with rainwater. The door opens as Will falls to his knees, his head lolling forward. His eyes focus on the blood pulsing past his fingers, but he can still see, in his mind, the expressions racing over Hannibal's features. He sees the initial politeness, the assessment, the realization.

"Will?" 

The composure in Hannibal's voice is convincing enough for anyone who isn't Will Graham.

Slowly and with tremors that rival convulsions, Will lifts his head to meet Hannibal's gaze. 

"I'm afraid--" Will croaks out, "I'm going to need a doctor." His bloodied hand grasps out, clinging to and hopelessly staining Hannibal's trousers. "I've had a dreadful--" he chokes on a cough, blood or mucus or regret blocking his throat, "--a dreadful accident." The knife slips through his fingers, hitting the wet stone with a flat clang.  
Hannibal veils his confusion behind a mask of bemusement, the gears turning behind his human facade, determining the best course of action. 

"So you have," Hannibal all but chuckles. "Come in, Will." he says as he lifts Will into his arms, "You don't need an excuse to visit. I only wish I'd had the foresight to prepare another plate."

Dinner, of course, goes untouched. Will, struggling for consciousness, finds the walls of this house --rich and dark and looming-- to be moving around him, losing him like he's trapped in a fun-house. At times he's back in Garret Jacob Hobbs's cabin, the antlers dripping blood from the walls. They turn a corner and Will is being carried through Hannibal's old kitchen --the perfect cleanliness, the precise marriage of aesthetics and functionality. 

Will clings desperately to his final threads of reality as he is set gently onto an operating table. The light stings his eyes, bringing the dull agony of his wound into sharp focus.  
Hannibal arranges various instruments on a table beside him. He cuts Will's shirt away from the wound, pressing fresh gauze in its place. He begins to fill a syringe. Will extends a bloodied hand and stops him. 

"No," he breathes. "I want-- I want to _feel_ myself survive this time. I want to know that I can."

Hannibal nods in acquiescence and places a hand tenderly on Will forehead, his thumb tracing the lines of his tortured features. 

"There is beauty in survival, Will. We will take care of this small matter, then perhaps I can help you on your road to it?"

A broken sob interrupts whatever response Will might have had. Hannibal accepts it as his answer, continuing his work in silence as Will does the same, his tears pooling on the table behind his ears.


	2. 12 Months Earlier

12 Months Earlier.

The sheets of the hospital bed, drenched in sweat, stick to Will's skin as he shifts uncomfortably. In the stupor of near-sleep he forgets the stitches holding him together and cries out at their tugging. His subconscious drags him back, the pain in his abdomen explained by a pair of antlers piercing him straight through. He tries to grasp at them, to remove them, but he finds his hands clutching Abigail. She cries out; the tips of antler are protruding from Will, threatening her. He holds her back, his body keeping her imminent harm at bay. A dark figure rises behind her, the scent of blood flooding Will's nostrils. The familiar nightmare looms, made of shadow and wearing Hannibal's face. The creature presses its nose to Abigail's skin, below her jaw. In this moment, she still has her ear, and Will can hear what she hears. The air tickles her neck, the nightmare whispering terrible promises, smelling her fear. 

The creature with Hannibal's face bows its head, seemingly in reverence, its own antlers piercing Abigail's pale throat. Will wakes with a strangled yell, hands searching for what holds him back and tears through him.

He finds nothing but blood and two torn stitches. His fingers linger over the wound, and he squints at the red light of the clock. He hasn't bothered the nurse for at least two hours, but the circles under her eyes had deepened since his last outburst. Will resigns himself to wait until morning. 

Staring at the clock, he recites the script, actively suppressing any sense of deja-vu. 

"It is 3:12 in the morning. My name is Will Graham. I am in a hospital in Baltimore. I am recovering from a stab wound to my abdomen." He transitions from what he knows to be true, to what he needs to be true. "Hannibal Lector did this. He is not a god, or a devil; he is a man... who called himself a friend." I let him call me a friend, he doesn't say.

When the pain in his gut subsides, Will prods it lightly. The sensation, for all he refuses to admit it, relaxing him.

\--

"Mr. Graham, why didn't you buzz for one of us?" The nurse is tenderly cleaning Will's opened wound as he blinks at the morning light. He lets out a small hiss, and she apologizes.

Instead of telling her he doesn't mind, not at all, he just says "It must have come open in my sleep. I didn't notice." He attempts what he knows is a barely convincing smile.  
She eyes him skeptically but continues her work without comment. As she turns to leave, she throws a glance over her shoulder. 

"You don't have to be so brave, Mr. Graham. You've been through more than most people can imagine. We're here to help you if you let us." Her features strain to show sympathy, and it's not so much false as it is too sincere. When he closes his eyes in waking, it's not his own trauma he suffers. He feels the blade at Abigail's throat. He chokes on the blood in Alanna's lungs. He feels the life draining from Jack, struggling to hold it in long enough to hear his wife's voice. 

Worst is when he feels the twisted caricature of love behind Hannibal's eyes, when he feels the blunt agony of betrayal that so thoroughly mirrors Will's own. Even the helplessness in the nurse's eyes stings more than his own feelings. 

When she's out of the room, Will's fingers pry up the bandage, grazing the new stitches and irritating the flesh beneath.


End file.
